Control
by Bone Dry
Summary: Brennan and Booth have fallen off the trail of a serial killer who has left fifteen deaths in his wake, but what happens when one of them is targeted?
1. The Final Count

_Well, after much debate and trial-and-error, I have added a few scenes to the story, edited most of the existing ones, changed some of the dialogue, and cut out some of the things I didn't like. And now it is completely reposted as only a few long chapters so that it looks less cluttered and my changes flow better. This version is actually almost a thousand words longer than the original._

_Thanks to those that had reviewed when I had first posted._

_Of course, I hold no claim to _Bones_ in any shape or form. But I do own the DVDs and watch them repeatedly._

_**Warning:**__This is very angsty and there is very little "fluff." Lots of hurt/comfort though._

_--_

**Control**

-1-

The shadows of the room consumed its contents with hungry jaws, sucking in all the light and leaving nothing behind. The only sound came from her hands working against the chains in a futile escape effort. She was alone, and every moment intensified this terrible truth.

The ground was dirt, slightly moist to the touch. The wall to which she was chained was concrete, and it felt hard and smooth under her probing fingers. The air was damp and musty. It smelled of decay and abandonment. And it smelled of something far worse. Something that she knew and recognized immediately. Its fetid scent infected her senses and soon it was all she could smell.

She jerked when she heard the creaking directly to her right. The chains held her firm. She could only watch as the door opened, allowing a sickly stream of light in to ooze over the objects in the room.

So much had the darkness enveloped her that the weak beam was enough to blind her. Blinking, she forced her eyes into focus and glared into the light that had encroached upon her eternal nightmare.

The light made him into a silhouette. His face was merely an outline. A shadow. But she didn't have to see him. She could sense his evil. His twisted excitement. His anger. It tore through the room more effectively than a hurricane could have ever hoped.

"You weren't much of a chase," he said, making a "tsk tsk" sound with his tongue. "I was expecting more." His voice was low and cold, as unfeeling as the dirt at his feet.

She remained silent.

He glanced down at his watch, "I'm afraid it's too early to start the game. So, unfortunately…" He reached into his pocket and took out a small object. It took her a moment to recognize it as a surgical needle filled with a clear fluid.

He was upon her before she could stop him, "It's time to say goodnight, Dr. Brennan."

She felt a small pinch in her neck before falling into a darkness far deeper than anything she had ever experienced before.

--42 Hours Earlier--

Special Agent Seeley Booth walked into the bone suite to find his partner slumped over an autopsy table, a reconstructed skull to her left, and a bottle of Elmer's on her right. He saw a mug of coffee on one end of the table—still steaming. One of her friends must have fetched it for her so that she'd have something to drink when she woke up.

He stepped forward and scooted the skull out of harm's way. "Bones?" he tapped her shoulder lightly, his fingers brushing against her blue lab coat, "Bones? It's ten o'clock in the morning. Time to wake up," he was using his sing-song voice. "Boooones."

Temperance Brennan groaned and lifted her head from the crook of her arm, rubbing her eyes as loose hair cascaded down from its original perch atop her forearm and shoulders.

"Bones?"

She jumped, sending the Elmer's flying across the table, "Don't scare me like that, Booth!" she

exclaimed, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes.

He noticed that there was something small and white stuck to the edge of her eyebrow, "Uh, Bones, you've got a, umm…" he gestured towards his own eyebrow.

She ripped the glue off, swearing.

His partner had been in a foul mood as of late.

"Here," he moved the mug closer to her. "Have some coffee."

She took the cup and swallowed a hefty mouthful. The anger that radiating from her body like heat seemed to lessen somewhat.

"Please say you have something," Brennan said after a moment.

He shook his head.

Sighing, she pulled the skull back to her and stared at it, "How many does this make?"

"Fourteen."

She just kept staring at the skull as if those empty orbits could stare back.

Booth watched as his partner started to slip back into the depression that had been gripping her relentlessly for the past week, unsure of what to say.

It was _him_, this man who sought to murder any woman who happened to cross his path. There were no patterns, no cause of death, no particulates, no evidence. He left only skeletons in his wake, mere shadows of the humans they had once been. And Brennan was left to listen to their silent words; left to interpret and cope with the information she sought.

For her part, she wasn't faring too well. She wasn't eating nearly as much as she should, she hadn't left left the lab in several days, and no amount of wheedling could procure a smile. She was exhausted and drained, and her low spirits were starting to drag down the rest of the team.

To make matters worse, the killer seemed to be playing a mind-game with her—blasting the skulls into a thousand shatters pieces to be left in a trash can beside the remains.

"Bones, you need to detach a little. These cases are getting into your head."

"I know." She didn't care.

"You're obsessed."

"I know."

"Why don't we go have breakfast?"

"Not hungry."

This was going nowhere. He needed bigger guns.

So he walked over to Angela Montenegro's office.

"Angela, I need your help," he told her with a fair amount of urgency in his voice.

"With what?"

"I need to get Bones out of the lab."

Normally Angela would've made a joke, but she had noticed the obvious shift in his partner's behavior, and her own concern was starting to escalate.

Jack Hodgins and Camille Saroyan were listening closely. They agreed to help.

Armed with the squints, he walked back to the bone suite, where Brennan was staring at a femur while Zack Addy was applying tissue markers to the skull.

Hodgins carefully took the bone from her hands while Angela grabbed her shoulder, "Come on, sweetie. We're going out," she slipped the lab coat from Brennan's shoulders and handed it to Cam—who promptly walked out of the room.

"Why?"

"Because we're all hungry and I'm not going out to lunch while my best friend is eye-to-eye with a skull."

"You haven't been out of the lab in three days, Dr. Brennan," Hodgins said gently. "You need a break."

Brennan turned to Zack for help.

He shrugged, "He's right, Dr. Brennan."

"See, Bones?" Booth said, "Even Zack agrees with us."

Cam walked back in, carrying Brennan's black blazer and purse.

Angela took them and pulled on her friend's arm, "We're going."

With only one final protest, Brennan was led from the lab to the Diner for a well-earned lunch.

--

When they got back to the Jeffersonian, the first place they went was Hodgins' office. Over their food, he had informed them that he had come into possession of a small amount of evidence. Had Angela and Booth not been there, Brennan would have certainly left at that very moment. As it were, things were tense coming back.

"After you gave me the sample last night, I ran it through the gas chromatograph and found out it was clay. Now, the confo—"

"Hodgins," Cam said. "Can you cut to the chase?"

He sighed, "Our victim was killed on a floor which contained clay—from the composition of the soil, I would say it was underground."

"You mean like a basement?" Booth asked.

"That's one possibility. But I found something else. Benzodiazepine."

"What's that?" Angela asked.

"It's a sedative," Brennan said.

"Yeah; it was in a knick on the right ulna."

"How did it get there?" Cam asked.

"Well, my guess is that the killer may have had a vial of the drug near the bone and accidentally spilled it—dousing the bone with the chemical."

"Where's your evidence?" Brennan asked.

"Nowhere else on the bone does the drug show up. And didn't the periosteum look slightly damaged to you?"

She thought about it. Come to think of it, that bone _had_ seemed a little more eaten up than the others.

"So, what? Do you think he re-cleaned the bones with bleach to get rid of the chemical?"

"That's my thinking."

"Did you find anything else?" Booth asked.

"No. Sorry, man."

"Where would you get this benzopan stuff?"

"Benzodiazepine," Brennan corrected automatically. "Sometimes it serves at the base for sleep aids. But it can also be found in illegal drugs like Rohypnol."

Her partner sighed, "Thanks, Hodgins. Keep looking, all right?" he walked out of the office; Cam and Angela followed.

Brennan patted Hodgins' shoulder, "At least we found something. Maybe that means he's starting to decompensate."

"I'll take another look at the bones, Dr. Brennan," Zack volunteered. "Maybe we missed something."

She watched him go for a moment before following him. Zack walked to the bone suite and picked up the first bone within reach—in this case the fifth distal phalange on the right side. Brennan went to the thirteenth victim and picked up the same bone.

Hours flew. Thousands of people came into the world; thousands of people left; tectonic plates shifted; glaciers in the arctic melted.

Then she saw something.

It was there. On the medial epicondyle. The first time she'd seen it she had figured it was a skeletal anomaly, but now she wasn't so sure.

Grabbing a magnifier, she dragged it over to the femur and turned on the light. Then she walked over to the computer it was connected to and zoomed in even more.

The surrounding bone curved up gracefully to form what used to be the upper left portion of the right knee. But on the very edge of the epicondyle was a sharp indentation with slight loss of the bone immediately around it. Small radiating fractures moved outward from the indentation, but none ran off the process. It was a puncture mark.

She grabbed the necessary paperwork and the bone before running over to Hodgins' office.

"Hodgins!" she exclaimed when she reached him, brandishing the clipboard in her hand like a sword.

He looked up from his computer. "Yes, Dr. Brennan?"

"I found something," she said, gently placing the femur under another magnifier, then zooming in again. "You see that?"

"Yes."

"It's a puncture mark."

He looked at her, "From what?"

"It looks like some kind of needle."

He caught her drift, "I'll try to see if I can find anything."

Happy that she may have just found something, she headed back to the bone suite.

Booth caught her half-way there.

"Oh no, Bones. You're going home."

She tried protesting, but it fell on deaf ears.

"I don't care, Bones. You need rest. And you are _not_ sleeping on the couch in your office tonight."

"He's right, honey," Angela said, stepping out of her own office.

"But—"

"Uh uh," her friend, for the second time that day, grabbed the lab coat and forced her out of it. "You heard that partner of yours. You're going home. I can drive you, or he can, but either way, you're out of this lab in the next five minutes."

Booth smiled at her.

No amount of arguments could dissuade them. True to her word, Angela dragged Brennan out of the Jeffersonian within two minutes of her threat.

"Ange, I don't think this is necessary," Brennan said as she inserted the key into the lock on her door, "I'll be fine."

Angela gave her a sympathetic look, "No, you won't be. But that's why I'm here." She patted her arm and followed the doctor inside. "So, where do you keep the alcohol again? I know I restocked it the last time I was here."

Brennan smiled and pointed to the far corner of her kitchen, where she had tucked a small cabinet.

Angela clicked her tongue, "Should keep it clearer sight, honey." She went around to it and opened a few doors and started pulling things out, glancing at labels.

She sighed, "I just don't need—"

"Drink, honey," the artist instructed, cutting into her protests—though not unkindly.

She took the glass that was offered to her and obeyed, "This is really strong, Angela." It burned as it went down her throat.

"That's the point. You need to loosen up a little. Now, I'm going to stay here until you feel better and then you're going to go to bed. And once you're in bed, you're sleeping.

"And, sweetie, if I come into the lab tomorrow to find that you've shown up any earlier than nine o'clock, I'm going to bring you back here and tell Booth he needs to post security outside the door to prevent you from leaving. I'm not joking." She reached forward and took her hand, "You need to get some rest. Will you promise me to try?"

"Okay," she smiled weakly, knowing her friend would carry out her threat if need be.

Angela stayed until eleven; Brennan could only manage to stay awake until ten-thirty.

--

Rain had come during the night, washing the heat from the city and invigorating some of the local population. By eight, the sun had taken watch over the sky, waking Brennan far earlier than she had wanted. Banned from the lab, she had meandered around her kitchen for a while, waiting until the clock had hit nine.

She had realized a while ago that her life was dominated by her work. Rarely did she take a vacation or go anywhere without bringing it with her. But it had become her life, and somewhere along the way it had also become apparent that if she had a choice, she would still chose her skeletons over a personal life.

Which was why, at nine o'clock on the dot, she stepped into the lab, heading straight for her entomologist.

"Dr. Brennan," Hodgins said when he saw her. "I'm glad to see you made it in."

"What?"

"Angela told us that if we saw you any earlier than nine o'clock, we were supposed to either escort you home or call her."

That didn't surprise Brennan in the least, "I see. Do you have any results?"

He smiled, "Yeah. I found digoxin."

"What's that?"

"It's an anti-arrhythmic used to treat congestive heart failure or cardiac dysrhythmia."

"Why would someone in her late twenties be taking an anti-arrhythmic?"

He didn't know.

"Wait…you found benzodiazepine too," she shook her head. "This doesn't make any sense."

"Could our guy be a doctor?" Booth asked from the doorway.

"That's one possibility," Hodgins said.

"But not the only possibility," Brennan said quickly.

"Can we say with reasonable certainty that our guy has medical training?" Booth asked pointedly.

"It's likely. Yes."

"So what's the problem?"

"Just keep an open mind, Booth."

"Okay, Bones," he flashed her a charm smile before grabbing his cell phone and walking outside the office.

She rolled her eyes before turning back to Hodgins, "Anything else?"

He shook his head.

"Okay," she turned to walk out the door, "If I find anything, I'll bring it to you." She turned left and walked forward until she reached Angela's office.

"Hey, sweetie."

"Hi, Ange. Do you have a face?"

She nodded and walked over to her desk. "Here," she held it out as Brennan stepped towards her.

The woman in the drawing looked about her age, but her hair was much longer and her smile much larger. A thin nose and high cheekbones made her distinctly Caucasian. The woman's eyes were warm and reassuring.

She handed it back, "You gave a copy to Booth?"

Angela nodded, "He faxed it to the Bureau earlier today."

"Thanks, Angela. And thanks for last night."

"Don't mention it."

She smiled at her before walking back to the bone suite.

"Hey, Zack."

He glanced up from a humerus, "Good morning."

"Find anything?"

"No," he paused as she walked towards one of the skeletons, "Uh, Dr. Brennan?"

"Yes?" his tone spoke of slight worry.

"I don't think you're going to want to hear this, but…"

"But what?"

"You've got a ton of paperwork on your desk right now."

She winced, "How much?"

He just gave her a pained look.

She muttered an expletive, "Thanks for the warning, Zack," she said, quickly turning to walk back to her office. It must've been because she had fallen behind as of late. The case had been occupying all her time and she hadn't been paying as much attention to the actual documents which came with it.

He wasn't kidding. Her inbox was spilling all over her desk and she could see a few papers on the floor.

Gritting her teeth, she bent to recover them and brought them to her desk. Then she grabbed a pen with purpose.

Hours later she surfaced, and had reduced the Everest-sized paper-pile to a sloping hill.

Groaning, she put her arms behind her back and stretched forward, her spine crunching. Not feeling quite as stiff, she turned to see Booth standing in the doorway—with more paperwork.

Expletive.

"I've got missing persons reports for the past few weeks here. I thought we should go through them."

She nodded, resigning herself to the fact that she was stuck in a perpetual cycle of paperwork.

He placed the stack of files on her coffee table, while he plopped onto the couch. Brennan settled opposite him, crossing her legs and folding an arm across her chest.

"Cindy Cooper, twenty-two."

She shook her head. "Too young."

"Louise Sheppard, forty-eight."

"Doubtful."

"Mary Shannon, thirty-three."

She nodded, "Maybe."

Five names later, they were left with only one other file.

"I'll request their dental records," he said, getting up.

She nodded, making no attempt to follow. "Okay."

"See you soon, Bones."

She nodded again.

After a few moments, she got up and walked over to her desk, grabbing one of the papers there in the process.

Another death certificate, she thought, placing her head on her hand. Wonderful. Two certificates later, she was fast losing her ability to concentrate. The words were swimming in and out of focus, and her wrist was starting to complain from all of the writing.

Hodgins broke her reverie.

"Zack thinks he may have found something," he said.

"What is it?" she asked, one hand massaging her right wrist.

"Discoloration...the skull looks like it may have been doused with something."

"Do you know what?"

"Not yet. Machine's running now."

Brennan nodded, "Thanks for telling me."

He nodded and walked out.

Brennan watched him leave and sighed, staring at the few papers left on her desk. Her mind was too frazzled to handle something this linear. She needed something more concrete, something more real. Getting up, she made the decision to go down to bone storage.

This place was Limbo. Most of the skeletons that came down here never left, but all would eventually spend some time with either her or Zack in the hope that they would eventually be identified. Some of them even made it up to the forensic platform. But for them time was eternal; it didn't matter how long they were down here. But it mattered to the anthropologist, and so she spent a lot of her time down here with the lost souls.

Pulling down one of the boxes from its vast cupboard, Brennan turned and walked over to a nearby table where a clipboard and pen were already lying in wait. Grabbing the latter, she wrote in the pertinent information before returning her attention to the bones—which were what really mattered after all.

They felt smooth and hard from underneath the gloves she wore, and her hands worked them onto the table deftly and swiftly, forming a picture before her eyes in no time at all. Most of the bones were present, making the identification traits easy to distinguish.

The nasal bone curved up gracefully before it ended, giving it a slope-like look. The orbits were round and the zygomatics high and pronounced. The skull was smooth and the muscle markings light and gracile. Brennan gingerly set down the skull and picked up the pelvic wings to see a broad sciatic notch. When held together the pubic bones formed a wide arch. But the face of the pubic bones was scarred—indications of childbirth. With a sigh, Brennan reached for the clavicle and saw no hint of the sutures that had one been present there.

She sectioned a piece of the femur and prepped a slide. The collagen fibers looked weak and disorganized under a microscope—their support structure out of whack. Osteoporosis.

Brennan stood and stepped back over to the skeleton on the table, wondering about the woman on her table. Was she a grandmother? Had people missed her when she had disappeared in the 1920s without a trace?

Her cell beeped, and she was forced out of her reverie once again to look down at her pocket and pull out the phone.

_I found something, _was scrolled across her screen. With one last look at the elder's skeleton, she quickly packed it up and headed to the entomologist's office, hoping for some good news. Booth joined her halfway there.

"The chemical Zack found was warfarin," Hodgins said the moment they entered his domain.

"Warfarin?" Cam repeated.

"The anti-coagulant?" Brennan said.

"Would that show up in her skeleton?" Booth asked.

"No. Never."

"How'd it get there?" Cam.

"Well, look at the skull," Angela said. "See the discoloration?"

They did. It all seemed to be surrounding the facial bones.

"I think someone doused the skull in the chemical."

"Why would someone do that?" Zack.

No one had an explanation.

"Three different drugs found on three different victims all killed by the same guy…" Brennan said aloud, thinking. She turned to Cam, "Do you think they could've been poisoned?"

Cam shrugged, "I don't know. There's not a trace of the soft tissue. That's the only way we can test for it."

"It's plausible," Zack said. "We can't find any other cause of death. Sharp force, blunt force, and projectiles all leave marks on the living bone."

"It would explain the puncture mark I found," Brennan said.

"Who would have access to these sorts of drugs?" Booth asked.

"Pharmacists, doctors, nurses…" Hodgins began.

"Thieves." Brennan.

"Nursing staff."

"Interns."

"Wouldn't the hospital notice when drugs start to go missing?" Angela asked.

"Probably not," Cam said. "One small vial here, a pill bottle there. Things go missing all the time."

"And even if they did notice, how would they catch the guy?" Booth asked. "I'll make a call to the local nursing homes, hospitals, and pharmacies," he walked out of the room, his hand already on his phone.

"Good work, Hodgins," Cam said, patting him on the back before departing.

"You too, Zack," Brennan rubbed his shoulder.

He smiled.

"Hodgie," Angela said. "I want to leave in about five minutes. So finish up so we can have a late dinner."

Zack, who lived at Hodgins' estate, spoke up, "Can you drop me off first?"

"Sure," Hodgins said, already starting to pack up.

Brennan walked out of the office to see Cam and Booth in a lip-lock near the staircase on her right.

Feeling slightly lonely, she walked outside to the Jeffersonian's small botanic garden. The air was light and breezy, and the smell of flowers was in the air.

She had knelt to smell a particularly beautiful rose when something hard connected with her skull.


	2. Oblivion

-2-

The right side of Brennan's head pounded behind her closed eyes. Groaning, she fought an impulse to vomit, leaning back against the cool concrete for support. A sudden pinch of pain from her neck forced her eyes open, and her hands involuntarily jerked toward the open puncture mark—the chains stopping them halfway there.

Her prison was now partially lit from the corner directly across from her. A small candle was the source. The light it emitted was so faint it barely created shadows, but its presence was a small comfort to Brennan. If light could survive down here, then so could she.

Her eyes discerned as much as they could from her surroundings. She noted that the candle rested on top of a large boiler—a black, bulky shape which sent a small shiver through her spine. A thousand times she had used them, but never had they seemed more menacing then now. To the right of the boiler was a table, unoccupied. But she knew that it hadn't been not long ago.

She looked to her right and stared into an inky void. The light didn't go far enough to illuminate it. But her memory told her that there was a door somewhere in there, as well as a staircase—confirming that she was indeed underground.

She froze as she heard a click to her right, and at that moment the candle went out.

--

Booth walked into the Jeffersonian trailed by two men from the lab who were wheeling in another skeleton. He hadn't been able to contact his partner. But it was six o'clock in the morning when the body had been found, and at the time he hadn't really wanted to wake Brennan up anyway, so he just let the lab workers recover the body.

He knew she'd be angry, but he'd take his retribution.

Zack, spotting the body from the bone suite, supervised the workers' movements until they had lain the body on the table, at which point they scurried off.

Booth ignored these actions and headed to his partner's office, figuring it would be best to take the lashing sooner rather than later. To his surprise, she wasn't there.

Frowning, he headed for Angela's office.

"Angela, have you seen Bones this morning?"

She shook head, "No. She hasn't come in yet."

He made a "hmph" sound and shrugged. Maybe his partner was asleep. It was only eight o'clock after all.

Shrugging again, he walked up to the forensic platform, where Zack and Hodgins had already begun to lay out the bones.

Booth watched them, thinking that they had to be the most efficient squints on the planet. Hodgins' specialty was slime and yet he was still helping Zack in lieu of Brennan.

It only took the two of them ten minutes to get the skeleton lain out. As soon as that was done, Zack grabbed the bag which contained the skull and carefully placed the bone pieces on a small tray.

Thirty seconds in, he froze, holding onto a small envelope and its contents.

Hodgins, noticing the object which held his attention, got up to look. After a pause, he turned to Booth, swallowing.

"What?" he jumped up and walked over to them. "What is it?"

Mutely, Zack held the object out to him.

Booth took it.

In his hand was a necklace made of small silver beads. The centermost bead was slightly larger and contained a small red gem; hanging off of that was a yellow stone framed in more silver.

It was the necklace Brennan had been wearing the night before.

--

Angela walked into her office to find Booth on her couch, staring at the necklace despondently.

Two hours ago he had called the Bureau and pulled every string he could find to try to find Brennan. Agents had looked all over her apartment, the Jeffersonian, and any other building that she could conceivably have gone to. In the end, they were forced to face the reality of things: she wasn't there.

Zack was working furiously with the bones, trying to find _anything_. Hodgins and Cam were rubbing Booth's shoulders, staring into space.

Angela herself had been crying in the bathroom, fighting the images infiltrating her mind.

"Did you find anything?" she asked Hodgins, sniffing.

"Sediment. She was taken from the garden," he said it without looking at her.

"Here?"

He nodded.

She collapsed onto the chair opposite them. Hodgins got up and crossed to her, reaching for her hand.

Angela pulled him closer and wept into his shirt.

It was then that Zack walked in.

He was trailed by a security guard. The security guard was holding onto the cuff of a young man, maybe fifteen, who was holding onto a small box.

Everyone stared at them, wondering what was going on.

Zack looked angry; it was one of the few times Angela had ever seen that emotion characterize his generally calm features, "Tell Agent Booth what you just told me."

The young man looked slightly frightened by all the angry attention being turned his way, "Uh…I have a delivery from a Dr. Brennan."

At the mention of her name, everyone jumped up.

Booth grabbed the guy by his collar and slammed him into the wall, "What?"

"A man walked up to me in the street. Gave me five-hundred dollars if I could deliver the message and the package to the Jeffersonian."

Zack had grabbed the small box before Booth had gotten up, saving it from certain destruction.

"What's in it?" Angela asked, almost afraid to know.

"I don't know," Zack said, not looking very inclined to open it either.

Neither Hodgins nor Booth were willing to touch it.

After a few moments of staring at the box, Cam finally stepped forward and took it. It was wrapped in the remains of a few paper-bags, like those taken from a supermarket, and sealed closed by duct tape.

She grabbed a small letter opener from Angela's desk and cut the paper and the tape all the way around the box. Being careful not to touch the tape, she took the packaging off. What everyone was staring at was a jewelry box. After another brief pause, Cam used the letter opener to undue the latch and lift the lid.

Inside was a surgical needle filled with blood.

Angela's stomach performed an upheaval, but she didn't move.

Cam didn't say anything; she just took the needle out of the room, heading for her office. Hodgins grabbed the packaging and the tape and departed.

Booth turned back to the delivery boy, "The man that approached you. What did he look like?"

"Uh, um…" he looked like he may have a panic attack.

"Tell me!"

Angela wasn't feeling too sympathetic, but she knew that coercion wasn't going to work on him.

"Here," she got up and led the boy to her desk chair with a lightness she didn't feel, giving Booth a look. "Just give me his features," she drew a basic outline and waited for his response.

When the boy started to talk, Zack left the room, no longer able to control the shaking in his legs. He headed to the bone suite. Booth remained in the office, sitting on the couch with fists clenched.

Eons later, they had a face.

And Hodgins had something else.

Hearing that their co-worker had found something, everyone went to his office while the boy was escorted out.

"The needle was washed with tap water, and a fairly large amount of it was trapped inside of the pocket for the plunger."

"You have something?" Angela asked, hope returning.

"Well, I don't have an exact location, but I know the neighborhood."

"Where is it?" Booth asked.

"It's within a few mile radius of _my_ neighborhood."

**--**

The house stood on an outcropping of small trees, closed off from the street by a large iron gate. Several large and overgrown bushes bordered the gate, effectively giving the illusion that the house it contained was large and impressive. But as Booth drove through he couldn't help but note that real house looked very normal. Brick in some places, white everywhere else. It was banal, as he suspected the owner would turn out to be.

Parked outside of the small building were five FBI SUVs and three police cars. A large truck with FBI stenciled across it was parked off to the side—the transport for the CSU techs.

"What do we have?" Booth asked hopefully, walking up to Special Agent Katherine Dorsey, who was running the scene. "Did you find her?"

Katherine was tall and fair-skinned, her hair black and long. She was an honest, hard-working agent—more than worth her salt. But right now her hazel eyes were worried and weary, sympathy poring from her facial features. He knew her answer before she could voice it.

"No," she said mournfully, "I'm sorry, Booth."

"Did you find anything?" his voice borderlined on a beg.

Karen exchanged glances with Andrew Simmons, who had walked up behind her. "Yes," she said hesitantly.

"What?" His apprehension level was rising.

With only one final glance at her partner, she led Booth through the front door of the house. The interior truly was banal—wood floors, beige walls. There was no art, no rugs, no pictures. To the right of a completely unimpressive kitchen was a staircase, which the two quickly climbed up. She led him down a hall with brown carpeting, then stopped beside an open door.

"What?" he asked again.

She gestured inside and he looked. To his horror, photographs of at least fifteen women wall-papered every square inch of space available in the room. He recognized all but a few, but his eyes were riveted to one particular set of photographs on the lower left-hand corner of the southern wall. He knew that auburn hair, those clear gray eyes.

Taken from a telephoto lens were at least two dozen shots, all of his partner. In some she was eating; others she was walking down the street, talking to a figure he recognized as himself, or kneeling over a body. A particularly impressive shot showed her with hands on hips, hair yanked into a pony-tail, as she glared at a hapless CSU tech. He remembered that as the day they had discovered the eighth victim and an inexperienced tech had apparently moved something that he wasn't supposed to.

With a sigh, he asked quietly if there was anything more at the house. Karen shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Booth."

"Yeah," he said, walking away, "So am I."

--

Brennan stared into the oppressive darkness, wondering what the man was doing. She still couldn't see him, but she wasn't really sure that it mattered. It held no bearing on whether or not she could escape, it was merely something her psyche craved.

Caging her emotions, she ran her fingers along the chains which kept her captive, searching for a weakness. Just as she felt something which sent a surge of hope through her body, the man spoke.

"Your partner has cops crawling all over my house right now, so I can't go back," she could sense his movement as he got closer to her. A shift of his footing, and suddenly a light flickered on. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, her eyes pierced with pain from the abrupt change in lighting. "I have supplies here though," he turned and she forced her eyes open once more.

Her captor had coal black hair which had grown out of a close cut. His nose was straight and sharp, his cheekbones high and standing in sharp relief against his otherwise gaunt face. He didn't look particularly strong or agile. She would never have believed she was looking at a monster had it been a normal situation.

The one thing that struck Brennan was his eyes. They were filled with rage and hate. But more than anything else, she saw emptiness. His eyes were more terrifying than anything she had ever seen before. They told her that he would not hesitate to end her life, as he had his other victims.

He leaned against the corner of the side room, so that he was facing her directly. Between his fingers was another needle, but this one was filled with a bright green liquid. Adrenaline began to course through her body.

She had a suspicion about what was in that needle. She didn't want it confirmed.

Perhaps noticing the expression on her face, he looked down at the object he held, "Oh, this? This is euthanasia. But not to worry, I'm not going to kill you now," he said it nonchalantly, shrugging. He might as well have been discussing the weather.

"Why'd you color it green?" she asked quietly, and her voice sounded labored even to her ears.

He smiled, revealing perfectly white teeth, "I've always liked the color," he set the needle down on an old wooden shelf directly to his right. "But enough talk," his fingers twitched as they pulled out another surgical needle. "It's time for sleep now."

Once more, there was nothing she could do but watch as he injected another heavy dose of sedative into her bloodstream.

**--**

"What did you find, Hodgins?" Booth asked, stepping into the entomologist's office with the rest of the team trailing behind him.

"Pollen, organic compounds, particulates—"

"Please. Just tell us," Cam said.

He sighed and shook his head, "I think this basement is outside of a house."

"Why?"

"Well, I found trace evidence from plants and soil. Why would someone have a tree in their house?"

"So, what? We're looking for something like a hurricane shelter?" Booth asked.

"Something like that. And I took a look at the water you collected from your suspect's house—it's pretty much the same."

Booth shook his head, "We have a name, a house, a possible location—what are we missing? Why can't we find her?"

None of them had an explanation.

Cam and Booth left together—he needed her for morale support. Angela forced Hodgins to go home, unable to stay at the lab any longer. Zack stayed, playing his teacher's role—reading the bones of the dead woman on his table.

--

Brennan had a feeling it was late afternoon. Although it was pitch black and there was no source of light in the basement, she just had the feeling.

Hours ago she had rediscovered a small crack in the eighth link of the part of the chain holding her right arm. She had since been applying a large amount of pressure to the area.

After guesswork combined with what her hands told her, she had concluded it was only one chain looped through an eye-hole in the wall which held her there. So, by her reasoning, if she broke just one link, she would be free.

The chance of success was slim. She knew that. But she would not just wait in the basement for her death, staring into the void with trepidation. If she was going to go down, she would go down fighting. No matter how small the odds, she would keep on fighting until the very end.

She had lost all feeling in her hand long ago; it had been twisted into such an unnatural position for so long that she was starting to get concerned about the lack of blood flow. Just when she was considering readjusting, there was a loud _CRACK! _as the link finally failed.

She froze as the chains finally slid to the floor around her, sure that he had heard her. Hell, she was sure penguins in the arctic had heard her.

But nothing happened. Her prison remained as silent as it had been from the beginning. Placing her hands on the dirt floor, she pushed to her feet, then reached for the wall as her legs failed. She had been in a prone position for at least forty-eight hours, and the muscles in her legs had long since cramped up.

She slid back to the floor and massaged her now aching muscles, trying to get feeling back. After several long minutes she felt strong enough to walk again, and she clambered to her feet once more. This time her legs supported her.

Cautiously, she stepped into the black void of the room, her fingers traced the wall. She stopped as she felt something small and box-like, and to her great relief she realized it was a light switch. She flipped it and the single naked light bulb oozed into life, occasionally flickering to show its dubious strength.

Revealed before her were two doors—one on the left wall and one directly in front of her. She walked toward the latter, reaching for the knob.

It was locked.

A quiet curse slipped from her lips. She had no confidence in her ability to kick the door down, and even if she succeeded, it would surely draw the attention of the Man, whom she would have no strength to fight.

Brennan decided to see what was in the smaller room to her left, hoping that it might contain a key. What she found was unsettling.

Inside of the room was shelves—and they were filled with drugs. She could see pills, vials, IV fluids, and ointments, all lined up and organized by their names and type. Some she recognized, and others she did not. On a table directly in front of her she recognized a small bottle of benzodiazepine—the drug he'd been using to keep her sedated. So distracted was she by the sight of the pharmaceuticals, she almost didn't hear the sound from behind her.

She turned, and a bat slammed into her parietal.

Gritting her teeth, for she was not going to give up now, she twisted the object out of his hands and hit him in the gut. Hard. He backed up, stunned. Taking that to her advantage she hit him a few more times before he landed a blow to her jaw.

Tasting blood, she stepped forward and caught his next attack, whirling and throwing all her weight into her elbow as it slammed into the space above his right kidney.

He doubled over as she put every last drop of strength she had into a punch to his head. He went down with a grunt, and then went still.

She stared at him for a moment, her mind swimming and her thoughts fragmenting. All she could think was that she needed to get out. She reached for the slightly ajar door which led to a staircase and mounted the first step. What she saw on the top was a small platform and a trap-door. Opening it, she proceeded out into cool summer air and the welcoming shapes of trees and plants.

Taking a deep breath, she looked down to see a slight trail in the underbrush. Following it, she discovered it lead to a sidewalk.

She stood there for a moment before recognition hit. She knew this sidewalk.

--

Angela walked to the door of Hodgins' estate house, on her boyfriend's heels. Someone had been banging on the door for several long minutes, and he was getting antsy.

He glanced through the peephole and paused, every muscle in his neck tensing.

"What?" Angela asked.

Hodgins yanked open the door.

Temperance Brennan was standing on the stoop, looking worse for wear. Her hands were bruised and bloody, her hair was matted and tinged red, her jaw was bruised, and she was covered in dirt and filth. Around her wrists were the remains of a long chain.

"Angela…" she muttered before her eyes rolled up and she crumpled.

Hodgins dove and caught her, while the artist ran to call 911.


	3. One Shot

**-**3**-**

Brennan woke up not knowing what to expect. She no longer felt the restraints on her wrists, and it was not dirt she was lying on, but a bed. Still, it took her a few minutes to force open her eyes.

She was in a hospital. It took her a moment to notice the IV in her arm.

Suddenly wide awake, she ripped the thing out and threw it across the room. When someone grabbed her arm, she instinctively brought her elbow ramming back into her attacker's face.

"God, Bones! What'd you do that for?" Booth groaned and held his now bleeding nose. "Jeez!"

Heart fluttering, she suddenly realized her arm was bleeding from where the IV had been attached. The rest of her body felt as if it had been lit on fire, and she bit her lips to stop a groan from escaping them. She quickly grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her arm, wincing at the pain her knuckles and fingers were firing into her.

He didn't have her. She was in a hospital.

"Brennan!" Angela exclaimed from the doorway. She ran forward and grabbed her hand. "How're you feeling?" she looked down at Brennan's arm, "What happened?"

"She ripped out her IV," Booth said, still holding his nose.

Angela looked up, "What happened to you?"

"She hit me."

She smiled and rubbed Brennan's hand, "You _sound_ like you're feeling better."

"Dr. Brennan!" Hodgins and Zack said, rushing to her side.

"You're awake," Zack said.

"You had us worried for a bit," Hodgins commented as lightly as he could.

Another "Dr. Brennan" came from the doorway, this one from Cam.

"What happened?" Brennan asked. Her voice felt weak and her throat was dry.

Angela immediately grabbed a cup of water for her and held it to her lips. She drank it gratefully, realizing it was the first drink she'd had in days.

Booth looked at her. His nose was now packed with a tissue. "Let's not talk about it now, okay, Bones?"

She looked at him. "Where is he?"

He shook his head.

She looked back down at the cup, which Angela quickly refilled.

"Dr. Brennan," said a man in a white coat from the doorway, "I see you're awake," he bent over to retrieve the IV and walked towards her. Memory flashed.

She backed against the left side of the bed, trying desperately to get away from him. Her mind brought her back to the basement. It was cold and the darkness was eating her alive.

"_Drugs are interesting," the Man says, walking forward. "They have the ability to cure disease, relieve pain, and take away unwanted emotions. But they can also be deadly..." he holds a vial into the light and fills a needle with its fluid. "As I'm sure you're aware..." his voice trails off as he steps closer to her and grabs her arm._

_Her eyes meet his own as he smirks, "What will your reaction be?"_

Then she was back in reality. Angela was forcefully removing the doctor, while Booth was attempted to capture her attention, "Bones? Are you alright?"

She looked at him and tried to relax, "Yeah," she said finally. "I'm all right."

"Are you sure?" he stared at her worriedly.

She turned as the door slammed. Angela was leaning against it, looking drained and exhausted.

"How long have I been unconscious?" Brennan asked quietly.

"Two days," Hodgins supplied.

"How long have you guys been here?"

"Two days," Zack said.

"Why?" the pain combined with her exertion were starting to get to her. Exhaustion was pulling her back under.

"Why?" Booth repeated.

"Because we love you," Angela said sweetly.

It was the last thing she heard before she fell back into the darkness that had held her for the past four days. But this time she wasn't nearly as afraid.

**--**

When Brennan woke again, it was dark and her wrists had small plastic restraints on them. The IV was back in.

Once more, she started to panic, expecting the man to come back in with another dose of benzodiazepine. Or something worse. Her struggle with the restraints caught her partner's attention.

He calmed her with a touch to her arm, careful to avoid one of the puncture marks which had somehow gotten there during her time in the basement, "Bones?"

"Booth," she looked up at his shadow but could only see the Man. "Please turn on the light."

He quickly reached onto the bedside table and turned a switch. Low lighting filled the room, enough to make her feel safe but not enough to alert the staff that she was awake.

"Why are these on my wrists?" she felt better, seeing Booth and not the Man.

"Because the doctors didn't want you ripping your IV out again."

"Oh…" she stared at them.

"Here," he glanced around first before cutting them off with a small pair of scissors.

She felt immensely better, "Thanks."

Booth just looked at her a moment before speaking again, "I need to ask what happened in that basement."

She looked away, saying nothing.

"Where was it?"

She swallowed, "A few blocks from Hodgins' estate."

"Could you give me directions?"

Brennan thought back, trying hard to remember, "If you follow the sidewalk from the front of Hodgins' main house east, and follow the road left, you'll see a very faint clearing in the underbrush. If you follow it, you'll find a trap door. That's where he…" her voice trailed off, not wanting to remember anymore.

He rubbed her palm with his other hand, trying his best to be the soothing Booth who sympathized with mourning families and traumatized people.

She, not responding, tried to see what was _in_ the IV, still not entirely comfortable with its presence. Her parietal objected to the movement, and sent a wave of pain slicing through the side of her head.

"It's morphine, Bones," Booth said as she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Why do I need morphine?" her eyes remained closed as she exhaled.

Instead of replying, possibly guessing as to what her next request would be, he grabbed the file at the foot of her bed and handed it to her.

She took it and looked through it, "Concussion, dehydration, hairline fracture to the left humerus and one rib, several puncture wounds, and assorted bruising," she exhaled again and closed her eyes. "Yeah, I need the morphine."

She could feel him watching her, but he wasn't saying anything.

And for once, that was okay. He didn't need to speak. The fact that he was there was all she needed.

--

Angela spied on the two of them from the doorway, feeling dirty for listening, but staying put nonetheless. She prayed that Hodgins or Zack wouldn't show up. Cam would know what she was doing on sight and not blow her cover; the two other scientists, however, could not be trusted.

She refocused her attention on the occupants of the room. Some of the stress in her friend's features had dissipated and Booth, who had looked as awful as Angela had since Brennan had gone missing, was starting to regain his composure.

After a few moments of silence, Booth spoke up, "Tell me what happened, Bones."

Angela took that as her cue to leave. She really didn't want to hear this part.

The pain in Brennan's voice stopped her cold, "Have you ever met a monster, Booth?"

Her partner did not reply; he just kept stroking her hand.

"I have. During my time in El Salvador, Guatemala, Rwanda, Niger…" her voice trailed off for a moment, "I've even worked with some of them…"

He squeezed her hand.

"But this man…" she turned and looked at him, "When I looked into his eyes, all I saw was darkness."

**--**

"What happened?" Angela asked Booth when she saw him walking down the hallway the following morning.

She was gathered with the rest of the "squints" outside of Brennan's room, not wanting to disturb his resting partner.

He stopped. "Well, we found the basement."

"Did you find anything?" she asked hopefully.

"Nothing good."

None of them asked for clarification. Brennan's story had been more than enough information.

"I had CSU send samples from the basement to the Jeffersonian, Hodgins. They're probably there by now."

Hodgins nodded, "Tell Dr. Brennan I'll be back later tonight."

Cam left with him, wanting to help.

Booth walked into his partner's room; Angela and Zack followed.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" Angela asked.

"Better," Brennan said, her voice stronger than it had been the night before.

"That's good," she settled into one of the chairs near the bed.

Brennan turned and looked at her partner for a moment, "You didn't find him, did you?"

He shook his head.

She paused, "Did you find his other victim?"

Angela looked at her, "How did you—"

"I saw a few bones on one of the tables in the basement before he knocked me out. When I woke up again, they weren't there," she turned to Zack, "Did you find them?"

"Um…" he said rather shakily. Angela vaguely recalled that Booth had threatened to shoot Zack if he told her about the skeleton.

Her attention drifted down to the file he clutched, "What's that?"

"Uh…"

Her gray eyes bored into his own. The temperature in the room plummeted, and Angela watched as poor Zack crumbled.

"It's her file," he handed it over meekly.

She took it, and her laser eyes refocused on the papers.

The room was silent whilst she sorted through the information in front of her. When Brennan looked back up, her eyes went straight to Booth.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought it would be better if you rested."

She opened her mouth, closed it, and remained silent for a moment, "I'm returning to the Jeffersonian in the morning."

"What?"

She looked back at him, "I've been resting long enough. I have an obligation to help these women, and my own revenge to think about."

Her voice was strong and confident. There was no way she was going to back down.

Booth tried to talk her out of it anyway—failing miserably after only five minutes.

"Okay, Bones. Fine. You win," he slumped into one of the chairs near the wall.

Angela rubbed her friend's hand, "I'll give you a ride tomorrow, okay, sweetie?"

Booth looked at her in disbelief; she guessed he had been under the impression that she would be on _his_ side. But Angela knew in her heart that the only way for Brennan to recover was to fight the situation.

And besides, she was going to cart Brennan home the moment she even looked like she was starting to tire—so she wasn't worried about stress.

"Thanks, Angela," her friend said gratefully.

"Any time, sweetie."

**--**

The next afternoon found Brennan back at the lab, deftly holding the left femur of Tracy Morgan—her former captor's fifteenth victim.

Zack had found nothing on the bones to help find the Man. And even if he had found something, it would only have told them what they already knew. What Brennan knew too well.

Despite this knowledge, she still felt compelled to sift through the skeleton in front of her, as if hoping that she'd find a current address tucked into a foramen or written on the posterior end of a styloid. The task was frustrating, and even after several hours of work it procured no results.

She walked back to her office feeling discouraged, and mentally berated herself for not having the forethought to have restrained the Man when she had escaped. If she had just kept her wits instead of running away…they would have caught him.

Angela, Hodgins, and Zack were sitting on the couch in her office, the coffee table in front of them laden with both opened and unopened take-out containers.

"We've got your lunch, sweetie. Though it's a little late," Angela said, her chopstick spearing a piece of eggplant.

She swallowed and shook her head, "I'm not hungry."

"You've got to eat," Hodgins said, brandishing his own chopsticks. "And this is good Thai."

"Join us, Dr. Brennan," Zack patted the seat of the chair next to him.

She gave them a small smile before dropping into the seat he offered. After a moment, she pointed towards one of the containers, "Are those flat noodles?"

Angela nodded, her mouth stuffed with chicken, and shoved the box toward her.

"Thank you," she took the food and grabbed a pair of chopsticks, suddenly realizing that she was very hungry. One taste of the noodles proved to be enough to yank her out of the depression she had started to slip into, and for the third time in the last few days she was thankful to have such supportive friends at her side.

"Did you find anything?" Zack asked.

She shook her head, burying herself in an order of Mee Krob.

Hodgins threw Zack a look, which Brennan missed due to the rate at which she was consuming the food.

"I'm glad to see you have your appetite back, honey," Angela said.

Brennan swallowed an extremely large bite with slight difficulty and nodded, "You find anything in the drugs, Hodgins?"

He paused for a moment, "No."

She nodded again, having expected that answer.

"I'm sorry."

The rest of their lunch was spent in silence, each of them lost in their own private thoughts.

When her team finished eating, they parted and headed to their offices, all trying to do their part to catch the Man.

Brennan stayed, picking at the remains of her lunch and catching up on back-logged paperwork, which she always seemed to have a lot of.

Minutes or maybe even hours later, she saw something which sent raw fear slicing through the pit of her stomach for the thousandth time that week.

**--**

Booth walked into Angela's office, wondering about the whereabouts of his partner, who hadn't been in the bone suite, the forensic platform, or her office.

"Have you seen Bones?"

Angela looked up from the sketch she was working on, "Uh, yeah. She went home already."

"Really?" he glanced down at his watch. "But it's only eight o'clock."

She shrugged, "Brennan was starting to tire. I told her to go home."

"And she went?"

"I may have threatened to bring her back to the hospital first."

He smiled, thinking that Angela was the only person in the world who was able to intimidate his partner, "Do you know where Morgan's file is?"

She pursed her lips, "No. But it's probably in her office somewhere."

He nodded and walked in the direction of Brennan's office; knowing his partner, it would be on the coffee table in front of the couch, and next to the file would be a small box of crackers or something.

When Booth stepped into her office, there was nothing on the coffee table except a few assorted books and paper weights. Shrugging, he walked to her desk and sifted through the papers on top, hoping it wouldn't be buried under some giant anthropology book.

He found a hastily scrawled note sitting on the blotter, its edges slightly crumpled. Curious, he scooted the paper toward him and picked it up.

"_Game's not over."_

It was written with a strong, confident hand. He wasn't even quite sure what it meant at first, but then he remembered: his partner had said that the Man had referred to everything as a "game."

And the game wasn't over.

--

Brennan fingered the gun under her pillow, wondering once more if it really had been a good idea to take it from her partner.

After finding the note on her desk, she had gone down to bone storage to bury herself in skeletons, hoping the work would distract her. And it had been, until Angela had walked in, broken her concentration, and told her to go home. She hadn't wanted to, but her friend had made such a convincing argument that there was nothing to do but comply.

She had stopped at the firing range on her way home, needing to release the fear she had felt buzzing around her stomach since the Man had found her. After blowing a few dummies into oblivion, she had walked upstairs to the FBI locker room, searching for the locker which belonged to her partner, and had stolen the gun she found there.

She'd been laying in her bed for a while now, waiting. She wasn't sure what she was expecting. But eventually her thoughts drifted away, leaving her in a state half-way between consciousness and unconsciousness.

When she opened her eyes again, it was dark, and slats of light were reflecting on the floor from the streetlight outside. She studied the shape, mentally calculating where the light must be from the angle, knowing the answer but doing it anyway.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something. At first, it only looked like a shadow in the doorway, but when it moved and she caught the faint glimmer of silver, she knew.

"Hello, Dr. Brennan," the Man said, stepping into her bedroom. "It's been a while."

It was only a few inches. Her fingers were that close to the gun.

It was the greatest distance she'd ever known.

The Man was coming closer, nonchalantly glancing around her bedroom, looking at things. His eyes flickered when he saw her move, but he made no immediate effort to stop her.

"Do you have something under that pillow, Dr. Brennan?" he asked coldly. "Something interesting?" in a flash, he was there, the muzzle of the gun pressed to her head.

She couldn't move. She couldn't stop him.

She'd die in her own bed without so much as a struggle.

A sound came from the hallway; the Man glanced back.

Brennan made her move. In a moment, she was sitting up in the bed—the gun in her hand, the muzzle pointed at the Man, her finger on the trigger.

His own gun was trained on her heart.

"Who makes the first move, Dr. Brennan?" his eyes glittered coldly in the darkness as his fingers shifted to the trigger. "You or me?"

One shot ended it all.


	4. Control

-4-

Brennan stared dully at the portion of the wall which had once been stained with Bill Randall's blood. Three days had passed since she had pulled the trigger, but she remembered every detail.

When he had stepped into her bedroom, he had meant to kill her. She knew that. If she hadn't shot him, he most certainly would have.

She remembered watching his body fall as blood started to seep from his mouth. She remembered getting up and standing over his dying form, feeling no remorse, no sorrow. She just remembered feeling angry.

Though perhaps what was most disconcerting was the fact that the Man had died with a rather self-satisfied smile on his face. There was no rage or fear in his eyes as they glazed over, and in his dying breath, he spat out one final word, "Control."

She had pondered what that meant since that night. She had reached the conclusion that he was referring to his control over the victims. Of his control over herself.

And in the end she was forced to acknowledge the fact that he had won his sick game; he had gotten into her head and had made her a murderer.

She didn't have to kill him. She could have shot him in the leg or the arm. But when she had lifted that gun, she had aimed for his heart. She had killed him because she wanted to, and that was why he had won.

She remembered that a few seconds after the Man had died on her floor her partner had rushed in, gun out, worry on his face. And for a moment when he had looked at her, just for a moment, he had looked surprised. Almost a little afraid. He hadn't expected to see her in her silk robe covered in the Man's blood, a gun in her hand, and a look of hatred on her face.

That look in his eyes had scared her more than the dead man on the floor.

She jumped slightly as the door to her apartment opened, "Bones?" her partner called. "Bones?"

Brennan made no attempt to get up from the bed, "I'm here, Booth."

He walked in and looked at her for a few moments, saying nothing.

"Is he gone?"

Booth nodded.

She hadn't stepped into the Jeffersonian since that night. The thought of being in her office while the monster was next door had been too much for her to bear. She had been waiting until his body was released, his charts were filed away, and his blood had been washed from the stainless-steel tables, never to be seen in this world again.

She nodded, "I'll come back tomorrow."

Booth sat on the bed next to her, nodding once more, "Okay, Bones."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and just stared off at some far away point for what seemed like a very long time, "Booth?"

"Yeah, Bones?"

"I asked…I asked you earlier if you'd ever met a monster…" her voice trailed off. "William Randall was a monster, but I'm afraid…"

He turned her gently and looked at her, concern evident in his eyes.

"I'm afraid…Did he turn me into a monster too?" the voice from her mouth was quiet and soft; it almost didn't sound like her own.

He stared at her for a long moment, "No, Bones. You're not a monster."

_--_

_Epilogue:_

_The History of William P. Randall_

_--_

William, or Bill, Randall was born to a moderately powerful family in Chicago. At an early age, he developed an interest in some of the local gang activity, having witnessed some of it from his hideouts on the rooftops. Always solitary, he became distant from those around him, and never learned how to relate to his peers. As a child, he was kept buffered from any misery around him and never understood the meaning of pain.

When he was twelve, he found a dead squirrel who had been run over by a passing truck. Curious, he had cut open the animal and dug around inside the body. So started his interest in anatomy. Because of his indifference to pain, he starting to pick off local wildlife and domestic animals—becoming more and more insatiable with each kill, and discovering the pleasure he took in inflicting pain on those he deemed weaker.

By the time he was old enough to live on his own, Randall had enrolled in medical school. Although he was intelligent, the man had no patience for his peers or his teachers, and started to refuse to do studies, work with others, and cooperate in general. A formal complaint was made, and he was kicked out.

That was the triggering point; Randall became more and more unstable, although physically there was no difference. He applied to a severely under-staffed clinic and was able to fudge his history enough to get the job. There, he started getting ideas about the patients he met—women in particular.

He started to follow them; write notes about where the went, who they saw, how they talked. And then, one day, while following a twenty-three year-old woman named Amy Morrison, he got the idea to kill her.

It was like the case studies he would read about on animals. What dosage is effective at what amount. He took it one step farther and used it on Amy; she died of an overdose of ketamine.

In all, Bill Randall was responsible for the deaths of eighteen women. Fifteen of those women were found and identified by his eventual killer, Dr. Temperance Brennan. One of the victims was never found, and the other two remain in bone storage in Chicago to this day.

--

_Author's Note_

_--_

_In case anyone was wondering, the necklace I described in Chapter Two was worn by Brennan in the Woman in Limbo and in the last scenes of Aliens in a Spaceship._

_I have no training in forensics and am very ignorant to the processes of the law, so it would not be surprising to learn that a few things I mentioned were inaccurate. However, I am fully confident in whatever osteology-oriented information I gave—for it was taken from a few mixed forensic anthropology and osteology books._

_Special thanks goes to Thnx4theGum, who introduced me to this site and encouraged me to post here._

_Thank you all for reading._


End file.
